


Master of Sleepless Nights

by 17stepstobakerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluffy bed sharing at the end, John wants to help Sherlock through his nightmares, Love Confession, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Sherlock has nightmares about John, Sherlock is hurting, They needed to be a little bit happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-28 23:56:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21400771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17stepstobakerstreet/pseuds/17stepstobakerstreet
Summary: “What? Oh, yes, talking, that. Well, it’s been pretty much the same nightmare every time. I’m enough of a lucid dreamer that I can usually make it less. . . distressing. Or I can wake myself up. That’s why you never heard me before,” Sherlock supplied helpfully, sniffling to try and clear his stuffy nose. He tried for an air of nonchalance, but John, who had lived with this man for years and knew his personality, could tell that he was struggling. His hands were still trembling a little bit, and his eyes still looked a touch too shiny to be normal. “And, well. . . they’re always, without fail, about you John Watson.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 149





	Master of Sleepless Nights

John Watson could not sleep. He decided, at that moment in time, that whoever invented sleepless nights was going to get a nice shiner around the eye.

It wasn’t his surroundings that were keeping him awake. In fact, the conditions were pretty much perfect; the air was just cool enough to be comfortable with one blanket, and the flat was as quiet as it had ever been. He had even drunk a cup of warm tea before bed, which made his eyelids droop and his body relax. A tired smile made its way onto his face as he lowered himself into his bed, but as soon as his head hit the pillow, all hope of sleep was gone. John was a master of sleepless nights; he could tell when they were coming. This was going to be a long night.

Hours later, John sat up in bed for the fourth time that night, rubbing his calloused hands over his face roughly. Blinking away the tiredness in his eyes, John stared at the clock on his bedside table. 3:46 A.M. Letting out a long groan, he pushed his legs over the edge of the bed and eased himself into a standing position, sliding his feet into his slippers. He shuffled into the kitchen as quietly as he could, putting the kettle on to make himself some tea. All was silent in the flat, and John relished in the absence of the usual noise that surrounded his life.

Grabbing the kettle off the stove right before it could start whistling, he made a nice cuppa for himself and settled down on his chair to drink it, hoping that it would help him get at least a little bit of sleep that night. At first, everything was normal. The lack of Sherlock’s presence was strange, and the dark, silent atmosphere seemed almost eerie, but those were to be expected. Everything was alright, and John smiled to himself, starting to feel sleepy once again. He finished his tea and placed his cup in the sink, rinsing it out before drying his hands and heading back to his room. A strange noise from his flatmate's room made him pause in confusion.

It sounded pitiful if he were being completely honest. There was a little bit of rustling, and on top of that, a low, sorrowful whine that droned on. It would stop for a few seconds, seconds that were full of labored breathing, and then would start up again, a pained sound that squeezed John’s heart in his chest. Low, rushed whispers interrupted the melancholy moans, but were gone a second later, whisked away by a shallow gasp and a sob. John pressed a hand to the door separating him from his tortured flatmate.

“Sherlock? Are you alright mate?” John whispered, not wanting to barge into the room if it wasn’t necessary. He waited for a few seconds, ear pressed against the door. The only thing he got in response was a low groan, cut off by a sob that echoed painfully in his mind. John took a deep breath and shook his head as if he could get the sound out that way. Fist clenching, John rested a hand on the doorknob, fighting with himself over whether he should just leave the man alone or see what was wrong. Another choked sob followed by more whispers sounded from behind the door, and John furrowed his brow and rested his forehead against the cool wood.

He hated this.

John could admit it without hurting his pride; he hated it when Sherlock was in pain, no matter if it was mental, emotional, or physical. Seeing pain in that man's eyes broke John’s heart in a way that he couldn’t quite explain. Sure, he’d seen many injuries over the years, big and small, serious and ridiculous, but with Sherlock it was different. Sherlock, this perfect, untouchable figure waltzed into John’s life and gave him strength, gave him a new spark for life that he never thought he would get back after returning from Afghanistan. When Sherlock was hurt, John swore he could feel the hurt deep in his chest as well. And he didn’t like it one bit.

“Sherlock, I’m coming in to check on you, okay?” John said, clenching his hand tightly around the now warm doorknob. He listened for a sign of discomfort in that, for some objections to John barging into his room. There was nothing. Labored breathing, occasionally interrupted by violent sobs or groans, was the only thing that John could hear. He took that as a sign that he was allowed to enter the room. Taking a deep breath, John looked up at the ceiling and hoped, prayed that Sherlock was okay. He turned the knob and creaked the door open at a slow speed, giving Sherlock time to change his mind in case he wanted.

When John peeked into the room and saw that no physical harm had come to his friend, he almost let out a long, relieved sigh. He would’ve, if not for the physical appearance of his detective. His face was paler than normal, there was little to no color in his usually full lips, and his hair was soaked almost completely with sweat that was now dripping down the sides of his face and his bare, heaving chest. His fingers were clenched tightly in the sheets, trembling from the exertion, and he was tossing and turning slightly as if he were trying to get away from something. John, ignoring the deep ache shoved between his ribs, reached out a hand towards Sherlock and crept towards him slowly. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? Do you have a fever?” John said, kneeling beside Sherlock’s bedside, reaching out a hand to place it against his damp forehead. Right before he could make contact, Sherlock’s head jerked to the side as he let out another low moan. John felt his stomach filling up slowly with dread as he dropped his hand to his side. John knew what was happening; it was a nightmare. Just a simple bad dream. But John knew that wasn’t quite it. God, he couldn’t tell you how much of his life was robbed from him by nightmares. He knew just what they could do to a person, especially ones of this intensity. The pain in John’s chest got worse, somehow.

John steeled his nerves and moved to wake Sherlock. Some people didn’t wake from nightmares kindly, and he was prepared for the worst. But, right before nudging Sherlock’s shaking shoulder, the man whispered for the first time since John had entered the room. “John. . “ he said, gasping slightly afterward. “No, God, please. Not John. Anyone but him.” There was a pain in his voice, and John clenched his eyes shut tightly, trying to block the anguish out of his mind. _I need to wake him up. That’s all. I don’t need to pay attention to anything else._ He reached out and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder before he could talk himself out of it, and he almost pulled back at the chill that was set on the sweaty skin.

“Hey,” John said softly, shaking Sherlock’s shoulder, “Sherlock. It’s just a nightmare. Wake up for me, will you?” As if he had heard the words that just left John’s mouth, Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he sat up quickly in bed, a shout of ‘John!’ on his lips. He gazed around frantically until his eyes landed on John’s worried face. Tears were in his eyes as he gripped at John’s shoulders, pulling him up onto the edge of his bed with a strength that John didn’t know he had at that moment in time. As soon as John was seated on the bed, Sherlock threw his long, trembling arms around him and started rocking back and forth, burying his face in his shoulder and gripping at the loose fabric on John's back.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, timidly placing a calloused hand on Sherlock’s back, “are you alright? It was just a nightmare, everything is okay. Take some deep breaths for me, okay?” He tried to regulate his breathing, John could tell. But it was still ragged and rushed, and Sherlock was still rocking back and forth and trembling slightly. He was mumbling into John’s shoulder, and John thought it best to just let it slide and not ask him what he was saying. They sat there for at least five minutes, rocking together, waiting for Sherlock’s breathing to even out and for his trembles to subside. After a few more minutes, Sherlock moved his hands to grip at the front of John's shirt before lifting his head off his shoulder. 

“Sorry John,” Sherlock said, his voice scratchy and uneven, “you- you weren’t supposed to hear that. To hear me, that is.” He plastered a fake smile onto his face, but his lips were trembling and his eyes were rimmed in red. Smiling sadly, John placed one of his hands on Sherlock’s shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. More tears gathered in Sherlock’s eyes, and before he knew it they were rolling down his pallid cheeks, leaving tracks behind them. John cupped his hands around Sherlock’s face, wiping the tears away with care.

“Hey, don’t apologize Sherlock. I hate-” _seeing you in pain like this. When you’re hurting, I’m hurting almost as much as you are. My heart is aching for you, Sherlock._ John shook his head, grasping for something else, anything else, to say. “I hate it when people go through the things that I went through and I can’t help them. Is this the first nightmare you’ve had in a while?” A dry, humorless chuckle made its way out of Sherlock’s throat, and John’s eyebrows furrowed. More tears rolled down Sherlock’s pale cheeks, and John wiped them away once again, still looking at the slightly trembling man with confusion and concern.

“That’s the fifth nightmare that I had this month. Well, the fifth one that I remembered. I had six others last month. One or two the month before that. I had been having them once a month consistently up until recently,” Sherlock said, looking away from me timidly. It was at that moment everything clicked into place; that’s why he’s looked so rough recently. John’s hands dropped onto his lap in shock, his brain racing through the past few months.

It had never really been a secret that Sherlock wasn’t good at taking care of himself. Well, that wasn’t quite true; it’s not that he couldn’t do it, or that he wasn’t good at it, he just didn’t care enough to do it. To him, his body was just transport and nothing more, something useless that held his big, brilliant brain and slowed down when he didn’t give it what it wanted when it wanted it. He got by on what little food, water, and sleep he could without being too weak to chase criminals, or too tired to not be able to think properly. Too many times John had caught a glimpse of ribs showing prominent beneath the skin on his torso, or the deep, dark bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. Recently though, he had gotten a little worse.

His mental faculties had slowed down for one, and the bags under his eyes had been worse. His usually sharp face had become gaunt and a shade paler, his joints and bones showing through his skin just a fraction more than usual. John knew from experience that consistently having bad nightmares could do this to a person, and he mentally kicked himself for not noticing the signs sooner, for not confronting his friend about what was going on. _If he were you he would’ve noticed already. He would’ve said something and you would be on your way to feeling better already. Don’t forget the way he played his violin for you every time you woke up screaming from a nightmare._ John shook the thoughts out of his mind with a deep frown; that wasn’t important at the moment.

“Sherlock, do you. . .” he trailed off and cleared his throat before saying, “do you need to talk about it at all? It might help you if you, uh, well. You know. I’m here for you. If you need me at all.” John coughed awkwardly, trying to ignore the fact he completely bungled the sentence. Sherlock, somehow, hadn’t seemed to notice the mistake. He was staring off into the distance, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, tears still threatening to spill over onto his raised cheekbones. John cleared his throat, knocking Sherlock out of his head and back into the present. Blinking a few times, Sherlock stared at John, eyebrows furrowed and face tense.

“What? Oh, yes, talking, that. Well, it’s been pretty much the same nightmare every time. I’m enough of a lucid dreamer that I can usually make it less. . . distressing. Or I can wake myself up. That’s why you never heard me before,” Sherlock supplied helpfully, sniffling to try and clear his stuffy nose. He tried for an air of nonchalance, but John, who had lived with this man for years and knew his personality, could tell that he was struggling. His hands were still trembling a little bit, and his eyes still looked a touch too shiny to be normal. “And, well. . . they’re always, without fail, about you John Watson,” Sherlock said, voice shaking and lips trembling as he tried to keep up his false smile. John swallowed hard and nodded, finding Sherlock’s hands and squeezing them tightly.

John had suspected it, could’ve guaranteed that it was about him, but hearing it from Sherlock’s own lips was different. It hurt, knowing that he was the source of sadness and pain in this man’s life at the moment. The man that he cared about the most, the person he needed the most in the world, the only one who had ever, or would ever, understand him fully and truly. That man was feeling pain because of him, and he would be damned if he didn’t hate the fact that Sherlock had been feeling like this so frequently because of him and hadn’t told him about it at all. Sherlock must have sensed his thoughts, for he squeezed John’s hand and tried to smile a fraction of an inch larger.

“In the nightmare, we’re at Baker Street having a relaxing afternoon together. I’m in the third person, so I can see both of us and I can’t really control myself. You’re typing up a case for your blog, and I’m comfortably settled at the table, leaning over my microscope. Then, in a flash of darkness, Moriarty shows up and he- he. . .” Sherlock’s voice faltered and tears gathered in his eyes once more. John gave his hands a squeeze and he continued. “He always gives me a gun with this- this sick grin on his face and tells me that if I don’t put a bullet in your heart he’ll kill the both of us. I-I can usually stop myself, and I never shot you before, but tonight I just couldn’t and I raised the gun and I- I. . . I’m so sorry John,” Sherlock said, barely getting his sentence out before a torrent of tears rolled down his face and his shoulders started shaking with intense sobs.

John, pulling Sherlock close to him, tucked the trembling detectives into his chest, rocking him back and for comfortingly. “Hey, hey, Sherlock, don’t be so hard on yourself, yeah? I know that you don’t want to kill me, and I know that you would never do it even if you were told to. That’s not the you that I know. The you that I know would use his big brain to come up with a genius plan that would save us. Or, if worse came to worse, we would go out together.” Sherlock’s hands clenched tightly at the front of John’s shirt again as John rubbed over his back and his sides comfortingly. Instead of starting to calm at that statement, his sobs became more violent and the trembling became worse. John opened his mouth to ask Sherlock what was wrong, but he was cut off by Sherlock yanking his head away from John’s chest, baring his teeth angrily.

“I would sooner put a bullet in my own brain than watch you die, John Watson, and don’t you forget it,” Sherlock growled, his cheeks covered in tears. “Don’t tell me we’ll go out together. I’ll save your life, or I will die trying, understand? I can’t-” his face slackened again, and he gripped John’s shirt tighter. “I can’t live without you John, I refuse to,” he whispered, burying his face back into John’s strong, warm chest. A lump rose in John’s throat at the sudden outburst, threatening to fill his eyes with unwanted tears. He couldn’t think of anything to say to Sherlock’s confession, so he just slid his fingers softly into the sweaty, tangled hair on the trembling man's head, massaging his scalp in what he hoped was a comforting manner. Sherlock’s tremors seemed to calm down a little after that, so John kept it up, occasionally going low enough to knead his neck and bare shoulders.

After what felt like an hour, Sherlock had stopped trembling completely, his tears dried, and he was no longer gripping at John’s clothes like his life depended on it. He was limp with exhaustion, and John laid him carefully on his bed, swiping his thumbs across Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones one last time before standing up and turning to leave the room. A hand clutched at John’s wrist before he could get far, and when he turned back around he was met with the sight of Sherlock, sitting up in bed sleepily, holding John's wrist in his too-thin hand. When Sherlock seemed to realize just what he was doing, his face turned red and he layed back down in bed, hiding his face from John. Smiling softly, Watson sat back down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, resting a hand gently on his shoulder. Flinching slightly at the unexpected touch, Sherlock burrowed his head further into his pillow, trying to dismiss John.

“Sherlock,” John murmured, rubbing a thumb across the bony shoulder under his hand, “what is it? You can tell me, you know. I won’t judge.” Sherlock sat up in bed, worrying his lip between his teeth and fidgeting his hands in his lap. Glancing up at John, he opened his mouth to say something before snapping it shut again. John could tell the gears in his mind were working hard, so he stayed silent so he could think without interruption. Sherlock’s face tensed, and he opened his mouth once more.

“I’m tired, John. I’m so, so tired,” he said, a small whine to his voice. “I’m tired of it all; the nightmares, the lack of sleep, the inability to think straight when I’m around you. It’s exhausting me and I just want it all to stop. But it never will. I’ll ever have a good night’s sleep ever again, my mind will always be clouded with thoughts of you, and I’m helpless to do anything about it.” He ended in a pained whisper, drawing his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself to hide his aching heart. John’s heart squeezed, and he barely paid attention to the confession Sherlock just made; there were more important things to be said at the moment. John reached out a hand to comfortingly grip one of Sherlock’s forearms.

“Hey, ‘Lock, look at me please,” John said, running his thumb back and forth across Sherlock’s arm, meeting the man’s eyes when he lifted his head from between his knees. “I know exactly how you’re feeling right now, okay? You don’t need to be ashamed of this, of. . . of any of this.” Offering Sherlock a small smile, John moved his hand to grip Sherlock's hand tightly. A tired, strained smile made its way onto Sherlock’s face. John found himself becoming irrationally mad at Sherlock’s mind. How could one of his favorite features be his downfall? _It’s not right_, his mind seethed, _this shouldn’t be happening to him._ A shiver from the man in front of him broke him out of his thoughts; now that it had been brought to his attention, John finally noticed how cold and clammy Sherlock’s skin still felt, despite being awake for a while now.

“Sherlock, do you want me to go make you some tea? You’re freezing,” John said, eyebrows creasing in concern. Sherlock just shook his head no before shivering again, shifting to pull his blanket up around his shoulder. “Come here, let me make sure you’re not running hot. You might have a fever,” John mumbled, scooching himself closer to Sherlock, reaching out his hand towards his forehead. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed when John rested his warm hand on his forehead, leaning into the touch. John chuckled before running his hand over Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone and cupping his jaw. “No fever to be detected,” whispered John, staring at Sherlock for longer than was strictly necessary. Sherlock just nodded as if to say that he already knew he wasn’t sick, and then nuzzled into John's calloused palm. He no longer seemed like the tortured, upset person that he was earlier. John sighed in relief.

“John,” Sherlock mumbled suddenly, color and heat rising to his cheeks, “would you- would you, um. . . Christ, this is hard.” Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together, his eyes still closed and his head still resting in John’s hand. Just looking at Sherlock, John could tell his mind was racing, trying to come up with the right words to say what he needed to. John just waited patiently, caressing his thumb softly over Sherlock’s reddened cheekbone. Sherlock’s thin, pale hands clutched at John’s wrist, holding it in place. John hadn’t been planning on moving it, but he wasn’t complaining. After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock blurted, “Will you stay with me tonight?” Before John could stop himself, he answered.

“Yes,” John said lowly, placing his other hand on Sherlock’s face, framing the pale, sharp, beautiful thing in his large, warm, tan hands. Sherlock continued babbling as if he hadn’t heard John’s answer.

“I want the nightmares to go away, John, and you seem like the best answer. Your presence is comforting, you’re warm, and you chase away all the thoughts that I don’t want or need to have. I trust you enough to stay with me while I’m asleep, so you are the best person to ask,” Sherlock rambled, eyes still shut tightly and eyebrows still furrowed. A light chuckle rose in John’s throat and left his lips, unable to keep it hidden away in his chest. Sherlock continued, seemingly trying to empty every single thought he had out into the open. “I’m sorry if I made things awkward by asking you, for that really wasn’t my intention. I just want my life back. I want to sleep and eat again. I want to be able to be awake without having a headache from lack of food and sleep. I just want your help, John. Please, will you-” John cut him off with a smile and another laugh.

“Sherlock, look at me and shut your mouth for a second, yeah?” Sherlock’s eyes popped open the second his mouth snapped shut, and his face turned scarlet again. “Yes, I will stay with you tonight. I will stay with you any night you want me to. You don’t need to ask, or to justify yourself. I know how it feels when your life is seemingly out of your grasp, when-” John swallowed hard, shaking his old nightmares out of his own mind, “when you feel like all is lost and nothing will be normal ever again. I want to help you through that because I care about you more than anything in this life, and damn me if I don’t help you when you need me the most.” The confession fell easily out of John’s mouth, and he felt happy that the truth was out, not embarrassed. Sherlock smiled widely at John, his eyes widening.

“I care about you more than anyone else in the world as well John, I. . . I really need you in my life. You’re the only thing I care about now,” Sherlock mumbled through his smile, his eyes closing again. Another laugh flowed from John before he swept Sherlock’s bangs off his forehead, pressing a soft kiss to the now-exposed skin.

“I know ‘Lock, I know.” Another kiss to his forehead. “Now, let’s get you some sleep, sound good?” Sherlock nodded before slipping out of John’s grasp, laying his head down on his pillow, just enough room next to him for John to slide in. After slipping in under the blankets behind Sherlock, John slung his arm over Sherlock’s side, carefully pressing on his bare chest until Sherlock’s curved back is nestled comfortably against his own chest. It didn’t take long for Sherlock’s chilly skin to warm up against John’s hot skin, and soon the rise and fall of his chest was slow and steady, an indication to John that the man was asleep. Pressing a kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, John smiled and sighed happily. 

Whispering a quick ‘I love you’ against Sherlock’s bare skin, John closed his eyes, certain that Sherlock was asleep and didn’t need John awake anymore. _Tomorrow_, John thought, _I’ll take him out to Angelo’s and I’ll make sure he eats enough. I’ll help him out of this hole he’s in if he’ll let me._ The thought made John smile sleepily as he drifted off. Just before succumbing to the waves of sleep slowly lapping at his eyes, he could’ve sworn he heard a little, soft ‘I love you too’ said back to him in a sleepy voice.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading everyone! Nothing would make me happier than a kudos and a kind comment telling me what you thought of it :)


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